


Summer in the Light

by maypop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 12:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/pseuds/maypop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France throws a revolution, and everyone’s invited. Even if they’d rather not be. The Revolutions of 1848, Hetalia-fied and genderbent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer in the Light

  
Spring in 1848, and France in her fever is all glory and all madness.

Russia kisses her too-hot forehead and closes the door in France’s face. France spits on her stoop and saunters westward to smile at Poland and Lithuania.

“Teach _me_ about revolution, will you,” Russia says to her closed door, and wishes she’d remembered to say these things to France’s face. There’s a term for that, but it’s French and it’s best she doesn’t think it. Russia’s lips burn and tingle. She goes north until she can scrub the ache off with snow that never melts.

*

“I am not supposed to talk to you,” the girl says, crossing her arms and standing her ground in the middle of the street. She has the high ground; Prussia would be proud. France smiles down-- _across_ , the child is growing, _across_ at the awkward pretty young thing, and the child is not quite fast enough to keep France from grabbing her wrist.

“Good girl,” France says. She peels the child’s tight little fingers out of a fist and bends over to kiss her palm. “You want very badly to keep me out, and if you don’t unify, you never will.”

“Prussia--”

“Prussia has her own problems.” France smiles, and knows she is beautiful when she smiles. The girl’s gaze keeps sticking on France’s glinting hair, her gripping slender fingers, trying not to slide down her neck into the Loire Valley.

“Prussia,” the child who will be Germany says, looking over France’s shoulder.

Prussia grabs France by the hair and tosses her against the wall with enough force to knock a few bricks loose, and all France does is laugh and laugh. “You don’t talk to her,” Prussia says. “You don’t fucking _talk to her_ , did I not make that clear?” She is thin as a whisper, and her eyes snap with hate.

“There has always been something unpleasantly _fanatic_ about you,” France says.

Prussia grabs her by the front of her dress and pulls her close. “You don’t _talk_ to her, you don’t _look_ at her, you don’t involve her in your fucking _plans_ \--”

France kisses Prussia, right on the mouth, for how can she resist the temptation? And in Prussia’s moment of paralysis, France murmurs, “You can’t hide her forever, crusader,” then grabs her shoulders hard. The coughing fit shakes them both and leaves Prussia’s waistcoat and chin wet with saliva and speckled with blood.

“ _Shit!_ ” Prussia steps back, shoving her little pet would-be nation behind her, but it is entirely too late. France sees the child looking sternly at her kissed hand, as though it is a problem of logic to be solved.

When Prussia demands to know if she is hurt, Germany makes a fist to hide the welt rising in her palm.

*

“Like I need you,” Poland says. “God, you’re so--” She stops to reload her gun. “-- _presumptuous_ , has anyone ever told you that? Christ.”

“--I have a talent in the area of revolution,” France says.

“Yeah, what country _doesn’t_ have Polish immigrants these days?” She lifts her rifle to her shoulder and fires, twice, then ducks back down. France peeks up in time to see how many of Prussia’s men fall. “For our freedom and yours,” Poland mutters. “Mostly mine, though.”

France drops a sack of ammunition by Poland’s side. “I’ll leave you too it, shall I,” she says, and leans over to clasp Poland’s ankle once, warmly.

Poland reloads. “Yeah, yeah. Hey,” she says, as France makes to leave. “Tell Węgry I’m waiting for him.”

*

“It’s a sound idea,” Denmark says.

"Must you be so damnably _reasonable_ ," France sighs in Denmark’s ear. It is necessary to hold Denmark’s collar twisted in her fingers or she will straighten and talk full-voiced. She always had more enthusiasm than grace.

Denmark laughs. “Frankrig, Frankrig,” she says, a little louder than France would like, so France hushes her until she smiles sheepishly. “My angry adolescence is long over.” Her arms gather France in, squeeze once, tightly, and her voice drops a little. “And best for everyone it is.”

France lets go of her collar and drapes her arms around Denmark’s neck, back arched to press them together. It’s a mistake; Denmark’s hand drops to rub her thumb across the hardness of France’s jutting hipbone, and her eyes go just a little sad.

“You’re hungry,” she says.

“Not enough to eat your food,” France says. She rises, graceful balletic en pointe, to kiss the side of Denmark’s neck, then the curl of her ear. “Speak to the king,” she breathes in Denmark’s ear. “Before I come back.”

Denmark raises her head and looks out the window, down the long road to Christiansborg. “Yeah,” she says. The print of France’s lips stands out red and slick on her skin.

*

Italy is madness and disorder. Veneziana flies into France’s arms and presses kisses to her cheeks and cries; Southern nations do not make France work hard enough to be entirely enjoyable.

“Beautiful girl, wonderful girl,” France sighs into her hair. She strokes her shudders away and stops her hand above Veneziana’s waist, mindful of the press of Papal States against North Italy’s back. “Of course you are doing the right thing. Of course it was not to be borne. We are all so _proud_ of you.”

France smiles and smiles and blots her tears, and Veneziana promises undying revolution against autocracy, if not in such pretty words: and she means it, as she always means these things, passionately and very, very briefly.

*

“America did it first,” Hungary says, a man who learned _catty_ from a good teacher. He doesn’t turn to look at her. He is not stupid.

“America is lovely, and charming, and a backwater thousands of leagues away,” France says. “Far away from our sweet little tangles in the old world. That she succeeded is not surprising, but what should concern you...” She slides her arms around him from behind, and nuzzles his hard back a little. Hungary stiffens but doesn’t let go of his spoon. “Is that I did."

“Why do I care?” he says, and still does not move away. “I grow my own wines.”

“Your humor is delightful,” she says. “And have I mentioned how much I appreciate how _male_ you are?”

“No,” he says.

“Would you like me to go into detail?”

“ _No_ ,” he repeats. She loosens her grip enough to allow him to turn around in her arms, and no, he is not unaffected by her. “I need to get the plates,” Hungary says, and France sighs.

“I am no small thing, Hongrie.” She strokes the side of his face. “I am a titan in the world of your overlords, and what I do will affect you all.”

“Talk down to me, please, I don’t get quite enough of that in my life,” Hungary says. “Do you need something?”

“She doesn’t love you,” France says.

“Why is everything I do about _her_?” It would be a wail, were his voice not so deep.

“Because you have a very beautiful woman trying to make love to you, and we stand here talking about Austria,” France says. She reaches up a hand to lay it on his cheek again, and he flinches a little. “And is there a way of committing revolution that is not about one’s overlord?”

“I never said I’d do it,” Hungary says. “Do you _want_ something?”

“I’ll have some of whatever you’ve made her,” she says.

“That--might not be a good idea,” Hungary says, and France blinks and leaves off contemplating the lovely hard body in her arms to peer around him. There are two pans on the stove. The contents _look_ identical.

France raises a brow. She smiles. She kisses his chin, and his collarbone, and slides her hands up his sides until his breath comes fast, and then she steps back. His face has started sweating.

“Pologne is waiting,” France says.

“Get out,” Hungary says. “Before she comes back.”

*

They scramble, they run, they pull out old documents and new red pens. They fear her, because France has always been fashionable, because they couldn’t resist her food and her clothes and they cannot resist her ideas. And this is more than style--this is contagion.

Austria is torn apart by France’s smiles, as even little Slovenia spits in her face. Netherlands, practical Netherlands, breaks her constitution before it can be broken by riots, and a new government rises. Switzerland, already weakened with war, drags the reins on her cantons until none have enough power to destroy her.

“Before you get ahead of yourself,” England says, and slams the stock of a rifle into Ireland’s stomach, and catches his chin with it as he falls.

France is home in time for Christmas, whistling _La Marseillaise_ as she goes.

**Author's Note:**

> -"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade." -Charles Dickens  
> \--No, there is no particular reason they are genderbent.  
> \---The timeline of this, who went to war when, is nothing like accurate.  
> \----Much thanks to the inestimable artillie.


End file.
